Scars

On the deck of the transport ship Nest of Salvation, the bearded captain squinted slightly as he gazed at the harbor close at hand. "Evernight Port... Speaking of which, the last time I passed through here was last year." Arman, standing beside him, nodded, his eyes similarly fixed on the port. "Yeah... It's changed so much I almost didn't recognize it." The long, narrow piers were as busy as ever—if anything, even busier than during its liveliest days. The only difference was that the merchant ships and passenger liners once moored here were gone, replaced by sharp-angled steel decks and towering gun barrels. Frequent harassment by the Alliance fleet had forced the Southern Legion to step up patrols in the waters between Evernight Port and the Far South, and organize anti-submarine forces to escort supply convoys. At the same time, Evernight Port functioned as a manpower transit hub. Reinforcements from the colonies and the homeland would assemble here before boarding ships together bound for West Sail Port, while disabled wounded rotated back from West Sail Port were transferred here to catch steamers heading home. A few idle young men stood on the shore in the distance. Arman could easily tell which among them had been rotated back from the front line and which were preparing to head out. They were like sugarcane constantly fed into a juicer: spines straight as a rod before going in, mangled pulpy mush when spit out. No one was an exception. The real tough guys were either in coffins or lost for good; none could ever return from the front. Without realizing it, this border town at the junction of the eastern and western worlds had become the foremost battle line where two great powers collided. Merchant ships, whether from the east or the west, prudently steered clear of this place. It was precisely this change that made Arman's fleet stand out so conspicuously. The moment they drew near the port, they drew countless curious stares. Arman hadn't wanted to attract such attention either, and would have preferred not to earn the money from this voyage at all. Yet when the quartermaster in West Sail Port entrusted those wounded rotated back from the front line to his hands, the polite words of refusal caught in his throat. Most of those lads were evacuees from Tiandu. Many had lost limbs or could no longer take care of themselves, having become dead weight to the front line. The vast majority of Wilante soldiers found it impossible to stomach that their comrades had been battered into such pathetic wrecks by a bunch of Brahma people. After all, just a few months ago, the Brahma people had been mere fish on a chopping block in their narrative—the kind that let themselves be butchered without fighting back. To lose to a pack of spineless "mudbloods"—in their eyes, these cowards had completely disgraced all Wilantes! Learning of the wounded soldiers' plight, Arman felt intensely conflicted. Even if sacrificing limbs to the law of the jungle they revered had an element of poetic justice to it, they were still his compatriots. He could not bring himself to join those lunatics in mocking these so-called useless rejects. It wasn't funny in the slightest. Out of sympathy, he had temporarily altered his itinerary, accepting the logistics office's commission to transport these five thousand severely wounded Wilante soldiers to Evernight Port first, before carrying laborers to Death Coast Settlement No. 1. Furthermore, he missed his family. Ever since the West Sail Port tragedy, he had relocated his wife and children to Evernight Port. It had been quite some time since he had seen them. While the two reminisced about Evernight Port's past prosperity, on the other side of the deck, several "blue gophers" from the Alliance were excitedly gazing toward the port. "Evernight Port!" "Holy shit, look at all those warships!" "Wait, why are there so many speedboats docked at the pier?!" "Probably dodging the 'Kraken' out at sea. Big ships are easy torpedo bait, so they swapped to smaller boats to haul stuff." "Speaking of which, are we the first players to travel this far?!" "I think Tail only went as far as West Sail Port." "That was ages ago! I heard Battlefield Guy passed through here long before." "Damn it! Do these veteran players have to be so competitive? Leave a chance for the newbies, will ya!" They had originally boarded on the Death Coast, intending to disembark at West Sail Port. Unexpectedly, they were denied entry, so they stayed on the ship and accompanied Arman all the way to Evernight Port, the legendary southernmost survivor settlement. This was outside the war zone. Although their identity as blue gophers was unwelcome here, there was no policy of denying them entry. They had thought that even if they couldn't pull off any crazy stunts, at least they could uncover a new map—only to discover someone had beaten them to it. Everyone was grumbling and cursing, disappointment written all over their faces. Except for one guy. This person's ID was [Talan Raider], leader of the Desert Corps. The name sounded rather imposing, but in truth, it was merely an obscure little corps. Far from comparing its highlight reel to that of Silver Corps, it couldn't even match the meme-tier clowns next door. Still, this commander was an ambitious man. Though he only possessed T5 strength, he harbored dreams of hitting T0. Back when he named the corps, he had noticed that the Alliance was about to enter Luoxia Province to fight, yet there wasn't a player corps dedicated specifically to desert combat. Frustratingly, the commander's personal abilities were limited, and his members had never been particularly impressive either. As a result, even as the expansions progressed from "Battle of Luoxia" to "Southern Barbarian Invasion," this Desert Corps had never once managed to step into the limelight on the stage of Wasteland Online. As it turned out, strength had nothing to do with whether a name sounded legit. Just as Commander Spring wasn't truly a respawn-fountain commander, Midnight Chicken Slayer didn't just slaughter chickens, Mosquito's caliber wasn't small at all, and Tail really was ultra fast. Though quite a few greenhorns had been duped by the name Desert Corps, assuming it belonged to the same tier as Jungle, Storm, and Death Corps, once they discovered their commander was just a total nobody, they promptly quit in disappointment. And so, while members came and went, the commander remained rock-steady, clinging stubbornly to this spot to this day. Yet Brother Talan was a dreamer after all, and had never given up trying. Perhaps moved by his sincerity, the trash dev had finally granted him a chance to show what he was made of! Just tonight when he logged on, he was pleasantly surprised to discover a glowing red dot at the upper-right corner of the quest bar on his official website page! That was the marker of an offline-issued quest! As everyone knew, a hidden quest only triggered under a single condition: when the events unfolding in the player's current area drew the personal attention of the Alliance's number one boss, the Administrator himself! What did that mean? It meant the Administrator was watching him! Not only that, but the esteemed Mr. Administrator had also acknowledged him, deeming him the most dependable person on this trip! Blessed with such an honor, Brother Talan was so thrilled he nearly wept. Right then and there, he resolved in his heart— He would never let this opportunity slip by! And he would never let the Administrator down! "Quiet! Quiet! Listen to me, everyone." Stepping before the group, Talan Raider cleared his throat, motioning for all the players to look his way. As for those who ignored him, he couldn't care less, raising his voice only to those paying attention. "I am the leader of the Desert Corps. I know everyone is disappointed right now, but don't worry! I promise you won't have come all this way for nothing!" "Just last night, our Desert Corps received word that the Enlightenment Society is suspected of infiltrating the Southern Legion. The Administrator wants us to thoroughly investigate this matter!" Watching the players whisper among themselves, Talan felt a rush of glee, though his face remained deadpan as he continued with righteous solemnity: "This mission is crucial. Not only does it concern the safety of the Brahma Province front, but it also touches upon the survival of the entire wasteland! Therefore, we need your help!" "Starting right now, anyone who joins the Desert Corps within twenty-four hours can participate in this hidden quest we triggered! We'll share the generous rewards together!" To be fair, his banner of a hidden quest genuinely caught the eye of quite a few players. In particular, the wide-eyed newcomers were already tempted to sign up. Only the battle-hardened veterans stood aside with folded arms, paying it no mind. Compared to the clueless rookies, they knew vastly better. "If this quest were actually that important, there's no way it'd be handed to this guy." "+1." "I bet the Administrator was just bored." It wasn't as if that had never happened before. After all, even the ramen shop owner outside the shelter entrance had received exclusive offline quests. It was hard to judge a quest's importance solely by how it was assigned. While several veterans were snickering and muttering, Arman also watched the loudmouthed guy with a subtle expression. Few people could understand the special language of Shelter 404, but they weren't nonexistent. Take him, for instance—setting aside those bizarre proper nouns, he had grasped the gist of it. The rough idea was that the Alliance's Desert Corps had come to Southern Legion territory in search of an organization called the Enlightenment Society. Considering the ongoing war in Brahma Province, this guy had practically shouted "I'm a spy!" in the Human Alliance language. Even so, Arman didn't expose him. For one, he had business in the Alliance; for another, he didn't approve of the Southern Legion's methods. Moreover, as a merchant, he was better off not rashly meddling in the games of big shots. He had suffered once already, and didn't care to suffer a second time... ... While a certain corps leader was noisily rallying—or rather, scamming—the crowd, customs officers on the shore had noticed the fleet docking. Before long, as the Nest of Salvation moored steadily against the pier, a limping man came hobbling along the dock. He wore a military uniform with campaign medals pinned to his chest, though his epaulets were gone. Arman guessed he was an officer reassigned to customs, though he couldn't tell his rank. Taking off his cap, the man squinted up toward the deck and shouted, "Where are you from?" The bearded captain yelled back, "West Sail Port! We're here delivering wounded!" "West Sail Port... Heh, wounded are about the only cargo left from there," the man grinned, the sneer on his lips mocking who knew what. Then he asked, "And where else? Where else have you been?" Not expecting so many questions, the bearded captain grew tense at once. Arman stepped forward, looking down at the man standing on the pier, and called out, "We've been to plenty of places. What, does docking require this much paperwork now?" Holding his cap in one hand, the man raised both hands and chuckled. "Relax, just asking... Welcome home, compatriots from afar." His pointed tone seemed to suggest he knew where they had been. Arman didn't care in the slightest, however. As he disembarked, he simply slipped a pouch of gold coins into the hand of this man who had long cast faith and honor to the wind. Compared to the compensation he received from Gulion's logistics office, this little bit of "PR expense" was hardly worth mentioning. Taking the purse, the man shook it. Seeing his evening drinking money secured, a broad grin broke across his face, and he smirked at Arman. "You merchants really make the big bucks... Damn it, I never should've become a centurion in the first place." Arman offered a faint smile. "It's alright. You only see when I'm making money, not when I'm losing it." They were all gamblers; none nobler than the other, separated only by winning or losing. Before this war started—or before it deteriorated into such a miserable mess—he had also envied those officers. Now, however, he no longer cared about winning or losing. In a lose-lose gamble, temporary wins and losses meant nothing at all. The man raised an eyebrow, tucked the pouch into his pocket, and extended his right hand. "Let's be friends. Kuluan, former centurion of the 34th Myriad, now Evernight Port customs." "Arman, shareholder and manager of Guabi Labor Brokerage Company." Arman shook his hand and introduced himself. Kuluan whistled, teasing playfully: "Guabi? Like hanging on a wall? What an odd name." Arman smiled faintly. "My partner came up with it. Said it's to stay true to our roots." "A partner from the Alliance?" Arman nodded. "Most of those folks from the east are like that. Quite a few oddballs, but hang around them long enough and they're pretty fun." "Mind sharing what business you're in?... Ah, don't get me wrong, I'm off the clock. If you'd rather not say, forget it," Kuluan smiled, catching the captain's guarded expression nearby. Arman replied in a casual tone: "Nothing to hide. In West Sail Port, we sign loan agreements with slaves to buy out their freedom, then ship them over to the Death Coast, where they're short on hands." Kuluan rubbed his chin with interest. "The Death Coast. I've heard of that place." Arman continued: "The Eastern Legion's expeditionary force went there. It used to be Torch territory." "Are there Wilantes there?" Kuluan asked curiously. Arman smiled faintly. "Of course, quite a lot, in fact. Some soldiers from the Eastern Legion's expeditionary force just stayed behind, while others came over from West Sail Port or the New World. In short, you can find all sorts of people there." "Even people from the New World?!" Kuluan chuckled. "Sounds like it really is quite a place, then." There was a pecking order even among the Wilantes. For instance, the Wilantes of the New World were regarded as the slyest of all. Most Old World Wilantes viewed them as inept at war, skilled only at churning out counterfeits and seizing cheap advantages. During this clash between the Southern Legion and the Alliance, for example, they lurked in the background profiting off the war, stubbornly refusing to enter the fray in person. Were it not for the Western Legion's respectable fleets, their reputation would likely have sunk as low as that of Triumph City's civil bureaucracy. Arman thought for a moment before replying: "It truly is a good place, in every sense of the word." Pausing, he added in a joking tone, "Coming back this time, I plan to bring my family over there as well." Kuluan burst into laughter. "The way you describe it makes it sound like paradise. Why don't you just take me along, too?" Arman cast him a surprised look. "Are you serious?" Kuluan gave a wry grin. "Just kidding. Though I really would like to hear what it's like over there. Free for a drink tonight? My treat—using the money I just made off you." With that, he unashamedly patted the pouch in his pocket, still barely warm. Finding the man amusing, Arman smiled along. "Then I'll just have to drink every copper back." ... Once the customs registration was complete, the wounded Wilante soldiers filed out of the hold onto the pier. Arman soon understood why the former centurion of the 34th Myriad had not looked down on him upon hearing he was taking his family away, but had instead half-jokingly asked to be taken along as well. Perhaps because there were simply too many wounded, Evernight Port's logistics department could spare less and less attention for these new unfortunates. After all, they could no longer create value for the Southern Legion, and even as propaganda models, there were too many of them to be useful. After all, in the Southern Legion Victory Gazette, only two thousand had fallen outside Tiandu; whose face would it slap if so many wounded suddenly showed up? The Southern Legion wouldn't abandon them, but neither would it acknowledge their sacrifices. Not a single doctor came to receive them—only a dozen staff in uniform, tasked with logging their names and arranging transport home as quickly as possible. Fortunately, they didn't have to pay for tickets home. As for whether they would receive prosthetic replacements or amputations, that depended on the discretion of local hospitals and logistics support units. In the end, lads from Arvent City might receive prosthetics, while the colonies followed an entirely different arrangement. Arman suddenly felt that bringing all these boys here might not have been a good idea after all; perhaps the Death Coast would have suited them better. Yet he had no say in such matters. Besides, even if he had done so, the wounded might not have thanked him. Imposed kindness was merely self-indulgence. Even among the slaves of West Sail Port, not everyone was willing to cross the ocean to a completely unfamiliar place. After all, this was the wasteland. Places that ate men alive were the norm; those that didn't were the rarest exception. Yet once the thought took root in Arman's mind, it became impossible to shake. He wanted to help his disabled compatriots. And he could feel that they needed his help just as much as those Brahma people did. The Legion would not look after all of them for the rest of their lives, but at least the Alliance's Refugee Home could fit them with prosthetics so they could sustain themselves. From the looks of it, quite a few officers withdrawn from the front line had been reassigned to this remote outpost of Evernight Port. These men might hold different perspectives on the war. Perhaps during drinks tonight, he could talk with that man named Kuluan about expanding Guabi Company's business to Evernight Port... As the wounded disembarked, the passengers from the Alliance followed behind them off the ship. Seeing [Talan Raider] looking around on the pier, Arman kindly offered a tip: "I can't help much with what you're investigating, but I can introduce you to an acquaintance. His name is Nok. He used to be a sailor in my crew, later became a mercenary, and is a local native from around here. If you're looking for a guide, finding him would be far better than seeking out other Wilantes... especially in sensitive times like these." With that, he handed the shelter resident a slip of paper with an address written on it. Looking at the clue handed over by the NPC, Talan—who had been fretting over how to begin his quest—accepted it in pure delight and thanked him: "Thank you so much! You've done us a massive favor!" Looking at the energetic young fellow, Arman smiled. "Don't mention it. I was once helped by a gentleman among you as well. If something truly terrible happens here... I hope you can save my compatriots." ... After parting with his Alliance friends, Arman went to the logistics department to collect his payment, then returned to the docks. Looking at the captain waiting there, he said in a low voice, "Now I can confirm my suspicions... This place is no longer safe." The bearded captain was taken aback and asked reflexively, "You think the flames of war will spread here?" Looking at the monitor gunboats moored nearby, Arman said with pointed significance, "Haven't they already?" The captain's expression shifted, though disbelief still lingered on his face. "I think you're overthinking it... After all, this is a war between the empire and the rebels. If the Alliance really pushed all the way here, Triumph City wouldn't just sit idly by." His family was in Evernight Port. If the war truly reached this place, he would have to consider their safety. "It's not that I'm overthinking. It's just hard for me to believe a liar's promise a second time... If I were alone, that would be one thing, but I must think of my wife and children." Arman placed a hand on his partner's shoulder. "This time, I intend to bring them along with me... You should consider yours as well." "Turns out you were serious all along... I thought you were just joking with that Kuluan." The captain gave a bitter smile, scratching the back of his head, and forced out with difficulty, "...Give me some time. A decision this big requires thought." It was the first time Arman had ever seen hesitation on this free-spirited man's face. Yet he understood the feeling. Back when he sought wealth and planned to leave Triumph City for barren West Sail Port, it had taken considerable effort to convince himself and his family. Only this time, it was not in pursuit of fortune, but in search of safety. He didn't want to experience the grief of separation and death again. If something like that happened again, it was hard to say whether he would be as lucky as last time. "We'll be staying here for a week. You'll have plenty of time to think it over." Pausing, he added, "Don't worry yourself sick over it, though. Maybe I really am just overthinking."